The Enemy
Granny and I watched from the front door of our cabin as
the last of the camp followers trudged past.
They were a sad and weary lot— women with babies on their hips, and ragged children no older than me prodding cows and sheep along the muddy road. The defeated British and German soldiers had already marched downriver.
My brother, David, refused to watch them pass by. He lay on a pallet before the fire, the stump of his right leg bound in bandages.
“I’ve seen all the Britishers, Brunswickers, and Hessians I ever want to see,” he grumbled.
David had joined the militia when he heard that an invading army led by British General John Burgoyne was coming our way.
David was with the American army when they made a stand at Bemis Heights, just north of our village. As his company stormed an enemy stronghold eleven days ago, his leg was shattered. Surgeons had to cut it off.
When the American army surrounded the general, Burgoyne finally surrendered. David was proud of the great victory, but I knew he worried about how he would take care of Granny and me now that he had only one leg.
It was growing dark. I lit the candles and put the checkerboard on the floor in front of David. We played checkers every night.
“Sarah, go feed the cow and bring in some firewood,” Granny said.
“We’ll play after supper,” I told David.
I pulled my woolen shawl tight around my shoulders and walked to the stable. The cow was curled in her stall chewing her cud. I took down the pitchfork from the peg and thrust its points into the pile of hay in the corner stall.
“Halten!”
A scrawny boy burst from the pile, his fists clenched. I pointed the pitchfork at him and stood my ground.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” I demanded.
He lowered his fists. “Please, I can march no farther,” he said in halting English. “Let me rest here tonight, and I will go on in the morning.”
“You were traveling with the army?”
The boy nodded. “Papa was a Hessian soldier. He was killed by your rebels, ten days past.”
“Your mama?”
“Dead also. There is much disease in the camps.”
“You have no family?”
He shook his head.
“My name is Sarah,” I said, tossing hay into the cow’s manger. I leaned the pitchfork against the wall.
“I am Wilhelm.”
“By morning, Wilhelm, the army and its followers will be gone. They are crossing the river tonight, going on to Boston.”
Wilhelm hefted a dirty blanket roll onto his shoulders. “Then I must go.”
He was barefoot. “How are you going to walk all the way to Boston with no shoes?” I asked.
“I marched from Canada with no shoes. I do not need shoes to get to Boston. Hessian men can do anything.”
Hessian men? Wilhelm could not have been more than eight years old. My parents had both died before I was eight, but Granny and David took care of me. Who would care for Wilhelm?
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
Wilhelm nodded. “Ja.”
Granny always said that we should offer the hand of friendship to anyone who needed it. Wilhelm was our enemy, but he sure did need a friend. What would David say when I brought a Hessian boy into our cabin? David had nearly died fighting to protect our home from the British and their German allies.
“Granny is fixing supper. You must eat before you go on your way,” I said.
“Danke,” said Wilhelm.
“My brother was badly wounded in the battle that took your father,” I told him. “He may not take kindly to you being here.”
I gathered an armload of firewood from the woodshed. Wilhelm slung his blanket roll behind his back and picked up two logs.
I opened the door. Wilhelm followed me inside. We piled
the firewood on the stone hearth.
“Granny, David,” I said, “this is Wilhelm. He has no family. May he stay for supper?”
David shifted on the pallet and glared at the boy.
“His papa was a Hessian soldier,” I said. “He died in the battle.”
“The battle is over,” Granny said. She put another plate on the table.
“I’ve been thinking,” I said, helping David up. “We could use an extra hand while you’re laid up. Wilhelm tells me Hessian men can do anything. Can he stay?”
David scowled at Wilhelm. I held my breath. Was he going to send the boy out into the cold night?
“Wilhelm,” he said finally, “can you drive an ox team?”
“Ja,” said Wilhelm.
“Can you split wood?”
“Ja.”
“Can you play checkers better than my sister can?”
Wilhelm’s blue eyes twinkled. “Ja!” he said.
David smiled. “He can stay.”
This story is fictional, but the historical details are true. On October
17, 1777, British General John Burgoyne and his troops surrendered to General
Horatio Gates and the American army after the Second Battle of Saratoga,
which began at Bemis Heights in New York. This marked a turning point in
the American Revolution.
